"Oh, cheer up," said Benny. "Who grabs the stick now?"
"Con Fuller."
The Stars were swooping in from the field.
"Hurry up, fellows; crack out a few runs, and finish the game!" sang out Nat. "Tippen can't win it all alone."
"I need just one more chance," said John Hackett. "When it's my turn to bat if I don't knock down one of those out-fielders I won't eat any more pie until to-night."
Con Fuller, a big, aggressive-looking boy, smiled grimly.
"Just watch me, Hackett!" he called. "Here's where the cover gets knocked off the ball."
"Oh, my, a good dollar and a quarter ball gone to waste," grinned Benny. "Don't do that, Con. Just dent it. Say, have you noticed how fierce Roycroft and Lawrence look? I wonder if it's Guffin's or——"
"Rah, rah, rah! Boom!"
A furious blast rising from hundreds of throats made it evident that Con Fuller's boast had almost come true. The cover was still on the ball, and it probably wasn't even dented, but those who had been looking in the right direction saw the sphere sailing far over the left fielder's head and stout Dave Brandon making a wild effort to overtake it.